


cat's cradle

by neifile7



Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Torchwood
Genre: 5 Times, Canon retcon, Character retcon, Children of Earth Fix-It, Episode: s01e10 The Doctor Dances, Episode: s05e13 The Big Bang, F/M, Frottage, Het and Slash, M/M, Multi, Rated TW for Timey-Wimey, Torchwood Series/Season 1-3, handjob
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-25
Updated: 2013-11-25
Packaged: 2018-01-02 16:09:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1058850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neifile7/pseuds/neifile7
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five rewindings, five loops, five fingers: five times canon or character got a dose of retcon. Covers Series One through Three of Torchwood, with references to s01e10, "The Doctor Dances," and s05e13, "The Big Bang." Can be read as a Children of Earth fixit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	cat's cradle

**Author's Note:**

> Prompts and pairings: Gwen/Owen, post-Himalayas (from reiley), Gwen/Jack (from amand_r and 51stCenturyFox ), Jack/Nine (from rose71 and azn_jack_fiend ), Jack/Eleven (with a hint of Eleven/Amy/Rory and “something unexpected in the TARDIS,” from alba17 ), Jack/Ianto (just because). These began as independent vignettes that grew into something bigger, each looping into the next.
> 
> Beta credit JESUS: amand_r, 51stCenturyFox, and copperbadge. Many thanks, amici.
> 
> First published on LJ on 8/31/10, in memory of K.

 

  
i.  _down from the mountain_  
  
She should be getting home to Rhys. Three hours ago, she was itching for it, could hardly wait to get through the airport, but the Hub stops her – well, not  _cold_ , not  _dead_ , she’ll never use those terms again; just stops all forward momentum. All’s secure here, no weevils or dinosaurs dying, and it’s otherwise just as bloody empty as when they’d left. She’d hoped – they all had, not saying anything of course – and maybe that’s why they’ve stalled, lingering over gear and monitors and stupid readouts. Just another way they’ll have to re-acclimate, like being apart after these weeks roped together, like breathing oxygen-rich air again.   
  
Owen’s given them the once-over, checked Tosh’s frostbite, Ianto’s knee, peered down Gwen’s own throat, and she’s sent them home while she helps him change the strapping on his ribs. At this point, she’s just putting it off.  
  
Because as soon as she’s away from them all she’s going to lose it. She almost lost every one of  _them_ , and for once she can’t blame it on Jack.  
  
Her fingers shake a little as she unwinds the bandages, and Owen winces, takes a long pull on the beer he’s chosen over painkillers. He sets the bottle down and puts his hands over hers, guiding them as they fumble.  
  
That’s all it takes. That and the aftermath of mortal peril, always their aphrodisiac of choice. Nothing to do with security, just  _oh god oh god we made it again_  and teeth and nails and gripping to bruise, leaving savage bookmarks of each escape. Like this: Owen’s mouth on her sweaty blouse and bra, roughly tugging on her nipples through the cloth; and Christ, his fists against her back as he ruts hard into her hip, fuck the rib injury. A moan from somewhere deep in his sternum hums into her belly. He pushes two fingers inside her. She hears herself say  _yes yes more_  and snakes a hand into his pants in turn.  
  
Afterwards, he pushes off and mumbles something about the loo. She stares after him as she rebuttons her blouse, and then lets her gaze drift to the half-empty bottle.  
  
When he returns, he grabs it and takes a defiant swig, locking his eyes on hers.  
  
Owen’ll take the oblivion, anyway. She can’t afford it, not yet.  
  
ii.  _while the monsters sleep_  
  
 _Just this once_ , she says,  _you owe me_ , and who is Jack to turn a lady down? Be selfish of him, really, and besides, she might have a point. Tonight she’s bruised and shaken and not ready to face Rhys, and he’s not leaving her to Owen anymore, oh no.  
  
Anyway, this is long overdue. He’s back, she’s marrying Rhys, and in this if in nothing else, his time is short. Sooner or later, Jack Harkness winds up buying loyalty with his cock, even if it’s only for a night. Cake-and-eat-it’s the habit of a lifetime, too, and hey, hasn’t he always prompted Gwen to do the same? More or less.  
  
Enough that she’s riding him urgently, eyes closed and lips parted, hair tangling about her face, until she throws her head back as he drives up into her. Enough that she’s clutched his hands over her tits and he’s adding to the bruises smeared along her ribcage. She clenches hard, so slick-hot, such a sweet, unbearable glide all along the length of him, and Jack tries to hold out, doesn’t want this to end.  
  
It does, though, with a crescendo of cries, a deepening note of Jack Jack  _Jack_ , and he slams upward then to his own finale.  
  
They’re both panting as he pulls out. He parts the strands of hair and smooths them back so he can see her face; skims her neck and nipples lightly with damp fingers, and she shivers. Memo to self, Harkness. Remember this: the flush flooding the Welsh pallor and freckles, the mingled earthy smell like chestnuts, the fine dusting of down, sprung to attention, over her forearms, nape, belly. Her eyes, dear god, those huge, dilated, sated eyes. You have to remember this for both.  
  
There’s every probability the retcon will take this time; she’s asked for it, she won’t fight it.  
  
He kinda hopes it doesn’t, though.  
  
iii.  _after volcano day_  
  
They’ve danced the night away, he supposes -- it was dark when they left London -- until Rose and Jack collapsed breathless on the sofa and started in on the hypervodka. Whatever his own reservations, the TARDIS seems to have taken to Jack at once, and catered to his tastes accordingly.  
  
He’s chivvied them, yawning and giggling, to their separate beds, and quietly snagged the Vortex Manipulator hidden under Jack’s cuff. Might be a sensible precaution to disable it, but at the moment he’s more concerned with Jack’s travel history, and for that he needs it working.  
  
Jack’s comment about Villengard has stuck in his brain like a burr of warning. A planet saved, a war averted, and Jack really should have known (yes, those coordinates confirm it). The last thing he wants to hear is that anyone has mucked with his good work. Especially not those jumped-up, weapon-happy apes from the Time Agency, with – what’s the term? – their  _hard-on_  for Villengard blasters. Trouble, then, maybe. Something best seen to while the others sleep.  
  
Which is how he finds himself here: backing a younger, protesting Jack Harkness ( _you could have just said you wanted to make friends!_ ) into a deserted bay in the space station, away from his smuggler’s cache of blasters; some harebrained scheme to re-start manufacture, probably. Well, short acquaintance and all, but it’s not hard to guess the most effective way to separate an Agent from his toys.  
  
He pushes Jack against the bay wall and slams their mouths together. Jack makes a sound that is no more than a quarter protest; then he lets his lips fall open lewdly, snaking his tongue over the Doctor’s and raising hands to cup his face.  
  
Jack’s leathers (Quintixian, he thinks, thirty-fourth century cut) prove considerably tighter than a banana skin, but once he’s peeled them away his touch-sense takes over. Humans – even fifty-first century ones – are ridiculously easy to stimulate, and it doesn’t take long before Jack’s hands migrate downward and he’s rocking his hips forward, begging for fuller contact. Can’t be having with that, really. A few more efficient pulls, extra pressure  _there_ and  _there_ , and job well done, Doctor.  
  
While Jack is still gasping, he carefully slots both hands over his temples and closes his own eyes. The reaction is immediate: Jack slumps, dead weight, open flies and all, and the Doctor catches him under the arms. He flicks the VM open, sonics in the Time Agency coordinates; Jack shimmers in his arms a moment before vanishing.  
  
The Doctor’s memory-editing, unfortunately, is not even as precise as his TARDIS navigation. Which is to say, not very. Pity about those two years.  
  
The fellow’s a survivor, though. Obviously. He’ll have managed.  
  
iv.  _you can see the stars again now_  
  
Another planet, another bar.  
  
Some rituals are automatic now: bellying up to the long bank of stools, a quick swivel to check out the talent, deciding whether he can be fucked to chase a fuck. The only thing he _will_  chase here, really; alcohol and oblivion are off the menu again. His memory these days is a lot like a scrim of gauze held too near a candle. What isn’t fuzzy feels singed full of holes, and no need to add to the befuddlement, even for a night.  
  
Funny how the memory loss isn’t as welcome as he’d have thought. Although some recent events really are best forgotten. He rubs his wrist, where the strap used to be. Not sure which was worse, losing the hand to start with or dying in order to get it back.  
  
When he swings back to his glass, his eye snags an intent brown gaze right at his elbow. Didn’t see that coming. He’s been off humanoids lately, but this one’s an eye-catching oddity: long mobile face, floppy hair; tweed jacket, braces, a bowtie and…a fez? “Hi,” he says automatically.  
  
“You don’t remember,” the fellow murmurs. “Only to be expected, I suppose.” And in a gesture that shockingly recalls one of Jack’s own (how many lives ago?), he takes Jack’s face in his hands and kisses him.  
  
Jack’s eyes flutter shut, then spring open. His head swims with the bright eddy of memory, flashes of pain and joy tumbling about and knitting together, like colours in a kaleidoscope. The Doctor cradles his face through it all, thumbs stroking, forehead barely touching his own as he draws away. For a moment, a weird amber mist glows in the gap between their lips, then dissipates.  
  
“Come along, Jack,” he says with a touch of the old bossiness.  
  
The TARDIS doesn’t look like the one he remembers, but she was never the same twice, was she? It’s fitting that she’d be a bit of a showboat now; suits her current Time Lord. The way she thrums inside him and all about him, though -- that hasn’t changed, even if the music feels a little slower, sadder and sweeter.  
  
The Doctor runs his hand lovingly over several levers and buttons (huh, that looks like Jack’s old Olympia from Cardiff) and swings back to face him.  
  
“Where were you?” Jack blurts. He’s not even sure which “when” he means, but the Doctor seems to understand.  
  
“Been busy,” the Doctor says, but it’s almost apologetic, not the old hard flippancy. “Rebooting the universe, sealing up all the cracks in time. Sealed up one of yours, too, that Rift you were watching all those years. Thing is, I’m a bit stuck on the wrong side. Don’t properly exist in your universe, or not yet.”  
  
“Then how –“ Jack begins, and stops.  
  
“How am I here? Ah. Your…condition, I’m afraid. Fixed point, remember? Needle jabbed through the whole ball of time-string? Right now, you’re stuck on both sides at once, Jack, and time will probably keep tearing around you unless you push through, go properly linear again.“  
  
Jack’s mouth dries. “Meaning what?” he croaks.  
  
“Meaning you need to go back to when the Rift closed, I think,” the Doctor says gently. “You do know you’re the reason that it stayed so active, don’t you? Once on the other side, you should be all right. Bit of a reset.” He pauses. “I think you might find it’s different, this time.”  
  
“I’m not going back,” Jack mumbles through gritted teeth.  
  
“Yes, but you know, you don’t get to pick and choose. I don’t either. I can’t go myself, Jack. I’m on the wrong side until – someone remembers me, there – in this body,” and the Doctor looks a little flustered for a moment (is he blushing?).  
  
Well, too much to hope that the Doctor had actually wanted  _him_. Still, the tact is something new.  
  
The Doctor points his screwdriver at the console, and a drawer pops open. He scrabbles inside and hauls out – oh no. “One trip only, fixed coordinates,” the Doctor says, staring down Jack with a touch of sternness as he holds out the VM. “I’ll be back to reclaim it, once all this is sorted. Call it a long-term loan, if you like, but it’s needed elsewhere.” His eyes soften. “And really, you won’t miss it.”   
  
v.  _an august morning_  
  
Sioned shrieks as she kicks forward, arching out to the swing’s forward apex. Dark curls fan outward from her head and her sparkle sandals wink in the sunlight. Ianto waits for the backswing, smiling. Kids piping, mums chattering all about him here, and it’s soothing, distracts him from the scrabbling thoughts at the back of his skull. A few women shoot him appraising or hopeful looks as he pushes his girl gently, not too far too fast. You can always tell which are the single mums. Pity the good-looking PC isn’t here with her little girl today, although that one’s  _very_  married; seen the bloke, not a type to mess with.   
  
 _Post-traumatic_ , his therapist says.  _Displacement_. Fancy talk for the random memories, where his Lisa dies even more slowly and horribly, and he spends his life making coffee and handling corpses and hunting filthy things in sewers.  _Think of them as dreams_. Like that’s going to help. He’ll end up sectioned like his mum at this rate, and then what will become of his darling? Rhi’s got her own troubles, two kids already and Johnny bloody useless most of the time, much as he loves her.   
  
He wishes his pension were a little more generous and didn’t depend on a bloody snob of a therapist, intent on rearranging his reality. Some days he wants to bite her.  
  
A few older boys tumble around a football at the end of the pitch. No mums with them, just a bloke in a coat, watching a sweet-faced blond boy among the dark Welsh heads. Haven’t seen that one about before. Mum must be a looker, or maybe it’s the dad there, long military coat like an old war film and hands shoved into the pockets, ready for his close-up. Are those braces?  
  
The man watches the blond boy idly for a moment and then turns his head to look toward the swings. Ianto’s vision blurs.  
  
Christ, this is no time for him to have one of his turns.  
  
Then the man is right there, holding his arm and saying, “You okay, buddy?” in an overripe American accent, and Sioned breaks out in a wail because he’s stopped pushing, because he’s sat rather too suddenly on the ground. “It’s all right, darling,” he says automatically, and the man in the coat huffs out a little laugh, as if Ianto had meant  _him_  just then, as if that’s the sort of thing he would ever say to a bloke.   
  
Something familiar here, though (a smell?). The kind of familiar his therapist says is wrong, wrong wrong wrong.  
  
Or maybe not.  
  
The bloke’s smiling at Ianto now, showing off really fucking perfect teeth, but there’s something a little dark and wary in his eyes. He doesn’t let go of his arm.  
  
“Hello,” he says, cautiously.  
  
“Hello,” Ianto says.  
  
He digs his fingers into the pea gravel and turf to anchor himself, but the earth is spinning, always spinning much too fast; and maybe the bloke knows it, because he closes his hand over Ianto’s wrist, and holds on.


End file.
